On connections

This summer is going to be an adventure. I plan to ride from San Francisco, to Tennessee, on to New York, up to Ottawa, perhaps back down to Maine; and then back to Ottawa. Thence across the Trans-Canadian Highway, until I get to Vancouver. A short (by then it will probably seem so), trip down to Seattle, and thence home.

I've had people ask why. Some have posited mid-life crisis (thanks, I've had it already). A few think I am just at odds and ends. The truth of the matter is... I miss a lot of people. My father, and half my siblings, are in Tennessee. lady_mondegreen whom I met at commodorified's wedding is in New Jersey (and a host of friends I've known for years, and never [or barely] met in all that time are in New York). commodorified and the rest of the family, are in Ottawa. Other friends, of a worth beyond measure (libertango and akirlu whom I have known, since we were all much younger, and perhaps even so far back as to say when we were young; as well as a host of others whom I met in Seattle through them; who were more support than I could have expected, in some of the hardest times of my life).

I want to see them. This summer (and maybe next) I have the chance.

There is a song , the lyrics of which are justr excerpts from a passel of letters found in an attic, which has haunted me since I first heard it, and it sums up why I am taking this, abbreviated; and somewhat directed, wanderjarhr. I don't want to look back and discover that I've let that happen to me, and the people I love.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 60, my dear and loving son John
Your good friend the schoolmaster Pat McNamara's so good
As to write these words down.
Your brothers have all gone to find work in England,
The house is so empty and sad
The crop of potatoes is sorely infected,
A third to a half of them bad.
And your sister Brigid and Patrick O'Donnell
Are going to be married in June.
Your mother says not to work on the railroad
And be sure to come on home soon.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 70, dear and loving son John
Hello to your Mrs and to your 4 children,
May they grow healthy and strong.
Michael has got in a wee bit of trouble,
I guess that he never will learn.
Because of the dampness there's no turf to speak of
And now we have nothing to burn.
And Brigid is happy, you named a child for her
And now she's got six of her own.
You say you found work, but you don't say
What kind or when you will be coming home.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 80, dear Michael and John, my sons
I'm sorry to give you the very sad news
That your dear old mother has gone.
We buried her down at the church in Kilkelly,
Your brothers and Brigid were there.
You don't have to worry, she died very quickly,
Remember her in your prayers.
And it's so good to hear that Michael's returning,
With money he's sure to buy land
For the crop has been poor and the people
Are selling at any price that they can.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 90, my dear and loving son John
I guess that I must be close on to eighty,
It's thirty years since you're gone.
Because of all of the money you send me,
I'm still living out on my own.
Michael has built himself a fine house
And Brigid's daughters have grown.
Thank you for sending your family picture,
They're lovely young women and men.
You say that you might even come for a visit,
What joy to see you again.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 92, my dear brother John
I'm sorry that I didn't write sooner to tell you that father passed on.
He was living with Brigid, she says he was cheerful
And healthy right down to the end.
Ah, you should have seen him play with
The grandchildren of Pat McNamara, your friend.
And we buried him alongside of mother,
Down at the Kilkelly churchyard.
He was a strong and a feisty old man,
Considering his life was so hard.
And it's funny the way he kept talking about you,
He called for you in the end.
Oh, why don't you think about coming to visit,
We'd all love to see you again.